


you must be kidding me

by manboobs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Needs To Use His Words, M/M, Pre-Relationship, who knows what this is really?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8530513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manboobs/pseuds/manboobs
Summary: Mr Blankie has disappeared. Stiles and Scott try to solve the mysterious disappearance.





	

Mr Blankie has disappeared. It’s gone.

Stiles didn’t notice at first, but in the early hours of the night, twisting and turning in the checkered sheets of his bed, realization hits him. Sleep is evading him because something’s wrong. Something’s missing.

Something he has slept with for as long as he can remember, something his first conscious memory of is around 3 or 4 years old. Mr Blankie was already full of holes then, a weird shade of brown and grey, but it was soft, fluffy and infused with his mom’s perfume and the sweet scent of her favorite laundry detergent.

Her perfume faded from the old piece of cloth months after the house stopped smelling like her (or like anyone was cleaning it for that matter). He stupidly held on to it, never thought about it or questioned the need to fall asleep clutching it like it was a lifeline.

Tonight though, it is nowhere to be found. He kicks the covers and pillows from the bed, pulls down the sheets, but he already knows he won’t find a thing. Mr Blankie has disappeared. Stiles is not panicking, shut up.

He thinks of his dad first, but the Sheriff hasn’t set foot in Stiles’ room or done a load of laundry since 2004. Laundry is Stiles’ thing. So is (pretending to) clean his room. The only other person who knows about Mr Blankie is Scott, but Scott is his bro. Bros don’t mess with other bros’ comfort blankets. It’s the rule. Okay so maybe he’s panicking a little, now. Just a tad.

Stiles knows how stupid this is. He’s seventeen, he’s not a child anymore. In just 33 days he’ll be a legal adult. He’s being immature and clingy and an emotional moron. But he can’t help the feeling of loss that settles in the pit of his stomach. Like losing the last faint presence of his mother in his life.

He doesn’t want her to be a memory, he wants her to be part of the little things. Even though it is through a piece of torn material he feels obligated to bury under his mattress any time he jerks off in his bed.

Cursing himself and his DAMN FEELINGS, he dials Scott’s number and resigns himself to being mocked until the end of times.

***

“Okay now you’re just fucking with me.”

“No, dude, I swear, this is the trail!” Scott says, eyes earnest and a bashful little smile playing on his lips. Stiles can’t bring himself to kick him in the shin. His puppy of a best friend is decidedly too endearing (ugh, gross), and the best bro a guy could dream of when he isn’t kissing Lydia Martin under the influence of a full moon. (”Will you ever let it go? It was like two years ago! I groveled enough for that already!” Scott likes to whine anytime Stiles gets vindictive-drunk.) But this. This has to be a fucking joke.

“Your wolfy super-smell brings the trail of my toddler comfort blanket through the town down to THIS PRECISE apartment building? And you’re absolutely 100% sure about it? No way you’re getting mixed up with the smell of, I don’t know, ANYTHING ELSE?”

Scott nods confidently. “I’ve grown up watching this thing stuck to your bed and it absolutely reeks of you. This is it, this is where the trail leads. I’m sorry bro, but my alpha senses are overwhelmingly aware of your gross blanket’s stench, and it’s in THERE.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. Scott might not care he’s an alpha, but he sure likes to mention it anytime he can. Maybe it’s a power thing, eventually it gets to your head, even when you are Scott-Disney-Prince-McCall. He figures as long as his best friend doesn’t go around slashing throats and yelling I’VE ALWAYS BEEN THE ALPHA, there’s no need to worry about it.

He sighs and steels himself for what is inevitably to come (whether it’d be humiliation or actual physical pain, he doesn’t know yet), stepping into the building, Scott at his side.

***

They break into Derek’s loft without the alarm going off (Stiles found a way to disconnect it months ago because seriously, way to be obnoxious when the last real danger left Beacon Hills with Deucalion almost two years ago - the coven of evil witches from last year doesn’t count, shut up Isaac). They creep up the stairs to the bedroom, Scott doing his best impression of a sniffing dog, Stiles bewildered by the eerie, peaceful silence of the loft.

Neither of them are prepared for the sight of Derek, fast asleep on his bed, stripped down to his boxers, star-fished across the frame of the bed, nose buried into Stile’s very own Mr. Blankie.

Uh.

Time stops for a few seconds. Derek is snoring a little, his face peaceful and open, devoid of the tension always running through his body when he’s conscious, brow surprisingly smooth. He looks younger like this, vulnerable even, and that, more than the utter beauty of his naked body, is what makes Stiles’ insides clench painfully. What the fuck is happening?

Scott isn’t susceptible to the poetic atmosphere though, and a loud snort escapes him, breaking the silence. Derek wakes with a start, looking confused and sleepy and this is too fucking much. Stiles’ heart does NOT back flip in his chest at the sight AT ALL.

“Whu… whut” he mumbles groggily, before he seems to take in the entire scene. Before either of the boys can even think of moving, he jumps off the bed and into a pair of jeans strewn on the floor, eyes flashing blue and fangs peeking out of his upper lip, his threatening expression significantly weakened by his nap-mussed hair, sticking out in every direction.

“What the hell are you DOING HERE? This is… private property!” Stiles is brought back to the land of the flailing by Derek’s flagrant re-use of a one liner. Scott, leaning on the door frame of the bedroom beside him, looks like Christmas came reaaally early this year.

“Is it some kind of catchphrase you use every time you’re feeling defensive, like ‘Go home, Scott?’ or ‘I’m the alpha?’ Dude, you should really work on your speech patterns.”

Derek splutters and tries to cover it with a growl, but it is feeble even to his own ears. Stiles can’t really process what is happening right now, and Scott decides to effectively NOT HELP by drawing out an amused “awkwaaaaaard” and turning on his heels with a chuckle.

Stiles is still stuck in the door frame of Derek’s bedroom, Derek awkwardly standing half-naked in front of him, looking everywhere but him, clutching Mr Blankie in his right hand, quietly panicking. Stiles’ mind is spinning, and the more he thinks about it, the weirder this whole situation gets. So he starts with the basics.

“Um… what. are you. doing?”

Derek huffs and shrugs once, looking at the floor. “Was just taking a nap”, he mumbles, scratching his scruff.

Thank you, Captain Obvious. Stiles’ impatience flares at Derek’s clear avoidance.

“Don’t be a smartass, we both know I can crush you at this game. What are you doing taking a nap with Mr Blankie?”

Derek’s eyes widen in surprise as he looks down at the cloth in his hand. “Mr Blankie?”

“Yeah, asshole, the piece of crap in your right hand, which has been under my pillow, in my bed, every fucking day of my life until yesterday night! What. the. fuck?”

He doesn’t know where the anger comes from. Perhaps it’s seeing Derek being so placid that brings out his aggression. He feels a sick kind of pleasure at being the one in control of their interaction, for once, even if he clearly has NO IDEA what is going on here.

Derek’s eyebrows pull together and he tries for one of his famous serial killer glares, but he only manages Vaguely Murderous Eyebrow #6. His mouth still can’t seem to form a coherent sentence.

After a long moment of silence, Stiles takes pity on him and strides forward. He hesitates for a second before gently taking the blanket from Derek’s hand.

Derek slowly lets go of the blanket, keeping utterly still.

“Fine then. What if we agree to never talk about this ever again?” He says softly, looking Derek in the eye. Derek stares back, gulps loudly, and nods once. After a second, Stiles allows a small smile to take over his features. Derek asks, voice strangely hoarse, searching Stiles’ face: “what about Scott?” Stiles flails his arms in what he hopes can be construed as a reassuring shrug. “Don’t worry ‘bout him. I’ve got enough blackmail material on Scotty to make him my slave for life.” Derek half smiles and cast his eyes down as soon as they meet Stiles’.

Figuring that’s all he will get from Derek in his vulnerable state, he backs out of the room slowly. It’s fine like this, it’s all good, he tells himself. He misses the snark, anyway. Before he gets to the door, his step falters on a snap decision. He stops just long enough to throw Mr Blankie on Derek’s bed, and then he’s off.

***

They don’t talk about it. Stiles promised, after all. Scott is keeping his mouth shut too, but his eyes sparkle with strange mirth sometimes when he catches sight of Derek.

The ever-present dark lines under Derek’s eyes recede slightly after a few days. He seems calmer too, less of an ass. Maybe it has nothing to do with… well. Stiles doesn’t care either way. He doesn’t. It costs him some precious hours of sleep, but he can at least spend them thinking of Derek’s features all open and peaceful. Maybe it’s because of him, maybe he helped do that, and that’s enough.

***

One Saturday afternoon he comes back home from thoroughly kicking Scott’s butt at Mario Kart (werewolf reflexes, my ASS) to find Mr Blankie tucked under his pillow, just as it has been for the last decade and a half. The unusual thing is the huge pile of werewolf perfection spread lazily in his sheets, perfectly at home, making cute little noises in his sleep.

Stiles’ heart stops beating for a full minute, he swears. He spends the next minute frantically searching his room for any sort of clue to what the hell is happening right now. But no matter how closely he looks, Derek looks fine. Safe, at peace. Motherfucking cute. Stiles sighs and gets into bed, barely fitting his significantly leaner (but still pretty attractive to some people, he’s pretty sure, thank you very much) body next to Derek’s, faces so close he can feel Derek’s breath on his cheek.

Stiles closes his fingers around Derek’s wrist, snuggles closer to Mr Blankie, and lets sleep overtake him.


End file.
